


Love, You're a Whore

by downtheroadandupthehill



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Sexual Content, Soul Bond, soulbonding trope thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-23 12:08:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/926223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downtheroadandupthehill/pseuds/downtheroadandupthehill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finding your soulmate makes things fucking complicated, especially when he's the last person you expected. (Or: Combeferre and Grantaire are head over heels for each other whether they like it or not and that means shit happens.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“You know it’s inevitable, those two,” Jehan says with a fond and dreamy smile, while Courfeyrac nods eagerly in agreement. They’re seated close together, watching their friends fight. Or engage in foreplay, if Courfeyrac is to be believed.

Combeferre sighs, pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, and tries not to appear too frustrated. Enjolras and Grantaire are at it again, in the middle of the meeting, arguing about the plausibility of accomplishing anything for their “cause,” as Grantaire refers to it as, mockingly. Grantaire is slouched back in his seat, eyes half-lidded and lips curved into a satisfied smirk, the white-knuckled grip around his beer the only hint to the tension coiling through him. Enjolras looms over him, gritting his teeth and trying (and failing) not to outright yell at him.

“Maybe once they bond and fuck or fuck and bond--whatever order it happens in--we’ll actually begin to get things done at a more reasonable pace?” Courfeyrac says.

Combeferre sighs again, more dramatically. He’s trying to tune out whatever it is they’re arguing about now, doesn’t even really know how it started. Usually he takes an active role in Enjolras’s life, social or otherwise, knows how to reign him in when he has to. But never when it comes to Grantaire, because, well, because Grantaire is something of a special case. For reasons such as the sexual tension that Courfeyrac so helpfully pointed out.

Although it is a good thing that Enjolras was too distracted to hear that little quip--otherwise he probably would’ve attempted to throttle Courfeyrac, and then Combeferre definitely would have had to step in.

“You should probably say something to him, Combeferre,” Courfeyrac continues. “You’re the only one he’s likely to listen to.”

“Since I am, apparently, the only truly reasonable person that Enjolras knows,” Combeferre says, dryly, and shakes his head.

“Well someone needs to make him stop being so oblivious to what everyone else can see!” Courfeyrac exclaims. Jehan pats his knee, comfortingly.

“‘The course of true love never did run smooth,’” Jehan says, as Courfeyrac laces their fingers together. “Not everyone’s soulbonds just snap into place like _that_.” He snaps the fingers of his free hand, for emphasis. 

“We aren’t all Marius and Cosette, love at first sight, et cetera” Courfeyrac agrees.

Combeferre thinks he might feel a headache beginning to come on. He glances at Enjolras and Grantaire on the other side of the room--Enjolras has stepped closer into Grantaire’s space, while Grantaire stares up at him. Their argument has grown softer, although it hasn’t abated entirely.

“It took a week of flirting before our bond was triggered,” Jehan says, and leans against his bondmate. 

“I’m sure they’ll figure it out without me,” Combeferre says, attempting to put an end to the subject. He raises his voice and adds: “Now should we get to work on the wording for the petitions to go around campus next week?”

Enjolras shoots him a glance of surprise, one that quickly melts into utter relief. Not even sparing a look for Combeferre, Grantaire just slumps further into his chair and nods.

…..

It’s interesting, Combeferre thinks, listening to what their friends have to say about the inevitability of Enjolras and Grantaire’s (currently nonexistent) bond--but only when he thinks back to high school, and all of the similarities (and obvious differences.). 

When they weren’t occupied with studying and filling out mindless college applications, Combeferre and Enjolras spent ages and ages trying to trigger their own bond, confident that they were soulmates. After all, no one knew Enjolras like Combeferre, and no one knew Combeferre like Enjolras. They knew each other's favorite kinds of books (political science for Enjolras, obviously, even if it was _bad_ political science, because that meant he could have the simple enjoyment of tearing apart awful arguments; and literally _everything_ for Combeferre--Combeferre simply loved all books with no respect to taste whatsoever, much to Enjolras’s dismay). They knew how they took their coffee (Enjolras needed at least five sugars in his, while Combeferre took his black). And even how to most effectively get the other off, because as it turns out, there’s a lot of sex involved when trying to trigger a bond, and you tend to learn a lot about people, that way.

(Enjolras liked to have his long hair pulled, a firm, bruising grip on his hips, and control exercised over him at every turn. Combeferre found out that he liked to _do_ those things quite a bit, as well as to cuddle, afterwards.)

It took them until halfway through their freshman year of university together before they gave it up, realized that if there was a bond to be triggered, it certainly would have been triggered by then. They also each lost interest in the idea of a soulmate altogether, because if they weren’t literally made for each other, then probably no one was.

Although now everyone else had the half-mad idea in their heads that Enjolras and _Grantaire_ might just be made for each other, once they got their heads out of their asses for long enough for their bond to trigger and they could ride off into the sunset together like a fairy tale. And Combeferre supposes that isn’t a bad idea, not really, because all he wants is for his best friend to be happy, and Courfeyrac is definitely onto something with the whole “sexual tension” thing that’s going on there. 

It doesn’t quite make sense, a soul bond between the two of them, but then so few bonds actually _do_ follow the laws of rational thinking. At least Enjolras and Grantaire had the snarky, love-hate relationship going on. Combeferre had seen that dynamic enough times in the romantic comedies that Courfeyrac forced him to sit through, before he found Jehan to watch them with him, instead.

They’ll work it out, somehow, Combeferre considers.

(It’s a rare phenomenon for Combeferre to be wrong about something so important. Turns out that this is one of those strange phenomenons.)

…..

It happens at a party. Somehow Courfeyrac's singular vote has established that the party take place at Enjolras and Combeferre's spacious apartment, so that's that. Neither of them are good with mess, or copious amounts of people and of alcohol, but it's somewhat more manageable when it's just their tight-knit group of friends.

Combeferre and Enjolras tend to hang back, seated on a sofa together and talking in low voices to one another about schoolwork and politics while the rest of their friends go wild. They like the noise and the liveliness sometimes, even if they don't get get directly involved in it themselves.

Everyone else is doing shots in the kitchen—even though Enjolras and Combeferre don't _own_ shotglasses, so they make do with regular-sized glasses from the cupboard. While they've declined the shots, Courfeyrac has mixed them each some sort of fake-fruit-flavored travesty that the two of them sip at out of obligation to “fun.” Combeferre doesn't mind drinking, doesn't mind an occasional buzz at the back of his mind, but Enjolras doesn't, so Combeferre remains near-sober with him. Because that's what friends are for.

He can hear Bahorel, Bossuet, and Grantaire discussing money, and he can tell that Enjolras just can't stop himself from rolling eyes. Betting again, on who can outdrink the other—even though Cosette somehow always wins, when she never even _starts_ the bet. So it's a typical evening, a comfortable one, even if it means that Enjolras and Combeferre will have an enormous mess to clean up in the morning.

Voices in the kitchen rise in volume, and Combeferre watches Enjolras looking over his shoulder, gaze locking onto Grantaire amidst the pandemonium, his eyes narrowing.

Combeferre opens his mouth, wants to ask Enjolras the question that everyone else has been asking one another, wants to at least inform him of the rampant speculation about what _could_ occur between Enjolras and their resident cynic.

But then he hears an enormous crash in the kitchen, the sound of breaking glass and the laughter of their friends.

Enjolras cocks an eyebrow at Combeferre—they communicate through gestures even better than they do through words--and Combeferre only sighs and shakes his head before they both go in to see what all the chaos is about. 

Bossuet is being cuddled in Musichetta's lap, the both of them sprawled out across the floor together, while Joly frets and rifles through the cabinets in search of a first-aid kit (even though all Bossuet did was knock some glasses over, and appears otherwise unharmed, for once.) Grantaire grins broadly at the scene, pouring himself another shot in one of the cups left intact. He's red-faced and bleary-eyed but he seems happy enough, a friendly arm slung across Eponine's shoulders. His grin falters when Enjolras walks in, replaces itself with something different—pasted on, and it doesn't reach his eyes. Maybe that will change, once their bond is finally established, instead of being on edge nearly all of the time. It'd be better for all of them, really.

“I'm going to bed,” Enjolras says. “Do you mind--”

“Making sure no one breaks anything else or dies? Of course. I didn't have an early class today.”

Enjolras gives him a small, grateful smile.

“I left earplugs on your nightstand,” Combeferre adds, and Enjolras squeezes his shoulder in silent thanks, before heading down the hallway to his bedroom.

Combeferre looks back at his larger, louder group of friends, sighs, and takes a large swig of Courfeyrac's fruity concoction, because he has a feeling it's going to be a long night.

…..

He doesn't get drunk, but by the time everyone is stumbling through the door to head home at two in the morning, Combeferre is comfortably tipsy, the corners of his lips upturned as he pores over one of his old _Harry Potter_ books from high school. Happy tipsy makes him happy read, and even better if his friends bother him in the meantime. But now they've all spilled out from his doorstep, and it's finally beginning to quiet down.

A weight sinks down beside him on the sofa.

“Stop pretending to be sober and put the book away,” Grantaire scoffs. His words are clear, precise. Too precise, really, which means he's going out of his way to enunciation each syllable correctly, which means that he is very, very drunk. His head lolls back against the wall, watching Combeferre through half-lidded eyes. “Let's watch some trashy television and order a pizza instead.”

“I don't think anywhere is still delivering, this time of night.” Combeferre uses the book jacket flap as a bookmark to keep his page as he closes it obediently. He doesn't ask what Grantaire's still doing here, doesn't need to. He's probably not able to walk home by himself, and maybe he'll catch a glimpse of Enjolras in the morning. Get to speak to him again, get to fight. Grantaire thrives off of it, and Enjolras seems to, too, if Combeferre is being honest with himself.

They're both quiet, as Combeferre finds the remote stuffed into the leather couch cushions and flicks on the television. It's rare for them to be alone together, to be forced to make idle conversation. He could ask what sort of projects Grantaire has been working on lately, but he knows Grantaire will laugh, tell him to fuck off with the polite, obligatory questions.

“Do you need a place to sleep?” Combeferre asks instead, sticking to the practicalities.

“D'you mind terribly? The couch is fine.”

“You can have my bed. You're a guest. And I'm not tired yet.” And it's not a lie. He won't mind letting Grantaire sleep in his bed, while he has a few precious quiet hours to himself, to fall asleep in the living room reading Harry Potter. It might be nice.

Grantaire tries to stand up, and slumps backwards. Combeferre sighs, resists the urge to _tut_ , and rises to help him. When he makes it to his feet, the world goes blurry along its edges for a moment, but doesn't spin—like it's probably doing for Grantaire at the moment.

“And no smoking in my bedroom. Even out of the window,” Combeferre says, as he reaches for Grantaire's arm--

And something shifts, and his fingers tighten, fingernails digging into Grantaire's skin even though he isn't trying to hurt him—no, suddenly that's the last thing that Combeferre could ever want, to hurt Grantaire—and Grantaire is watching him in terror and curving an arm around his waist--

“You've got to be fucking kidding me,” he hears Grantaire breathe against his neck. “What a fucking nightmare.” They've fit themselves together like puzzle pieces, Grantaire's head slotted against his shoulder and arms weaved around him. Combeferre can feel his own heart pounding, he's trying to catch his breath.

“Let's just sleep it off. I'm way too drunk for this shit right now.” But Grantaire doesn't let go of him, holds fast to Combeferre's hand as he pulls him in the direction of Combeferre's bedroom.

It's dark inside, and Combeferre hears his mattress creak as Grantaire flops down onto it. Combeferre crawls in carefully beside him before he can stop himself, because even though he said he'd sleep on the couch, well, that just seems _ridiculous,_ now, doesn't it? As if he'd ever want to sleep apart from Grantaire.

He presses a soft kiss to Grantaire's lips, before listening to the sound of the other man falling asleep.

_What just happened?_

…..

Grantaire curls into him like a question mark, sinking into the curve of his torso like he belongs there—because he does, he realizes. And he's conscious about it, too. Wide awake, head throbbing, eyes slammed shut to keep the light out. He can pretend to Combeferre that he's asleep, drifting towards warmth and comfort unknowingly. But he can't pretend to himself—how he can't let go, can't pull himself away like any sane person would, waking up beside the love of his life's best friend.

Their breathing is in sync, Grantaire realizes with a start, even though Combeferre is still fast asleep. He doesn't snore, although the slightest hint of drool trails from the left corner of his lips.

(Grantaire wants to draw it, wants to slap himself for wanting to draw something _so fucking stupid_.)

His calf hooked across Combeferre's thigh, head on his shoulder. Thinking too much, can't think at all. He feels a fist clench around his heart when Combeferre's arm around him shifts, only momentarily.

It feels like a sick joke. One that Bahorel might play on him, if the effects of soulbonding could be reproduced by recreational drugs on a prank or a dare.

Combeferre smells like laundry detergent, like his sheets. It's a far pleasanter scent than laundry detergent has any right to be, but it's coming from Combeferre, so Grantaire suspects he might be biased.

He'd like to slip away, before Combeferre wakes up, and maybe they can pretend that all of this _shit_ was just the result of some crazy, ridiculous, alcohol-induced dream.

That fist around his heart clenches again, harder this time, at the idea of Grantaire leaving. So while he might not like it—especially since he can spot his phone across the room, still in his jeans pocket, and he'd really like to text Cosette or Eponine and _freak the fuck out_ for a few moments to someone besides himself—Grantaire stays.

…..

When Combeferre wakes up, it's with Grantaire glued to his side. Grantaire of all people—and certainly neither of them could have anticipated this. His blue eyes are wide open, watching Combeferre intently, like he can't take his eyes off him. Probably can't. Initial bonding is always like this, Combeferre has read.

For once he's at a loss for words. He's usually good with words, especially soft ones of comfort. But this is too different, and he's caught off guard.

“How are you feeling?” he finally settles on, voice still low and rough with sleep. His thumb strokes along Grantaire's hipbone, bare skin where his t-shirt has ridden up—he didn't even realize he was doing it.

“Not as hungover as I ought to be feeling after last night.” Grantaire's laugh is self-deprecating, self-deprecating and lovely, and Combeferre is certain he's never thought that about Grantaire before now.

“Endorphins,” he answers. “An enormous rush of them.” _From our bond,_ he doesn't say, because he doesn't even know how to begin discussing _that._ The arm that isn't sling around Grantaire reaches for his glasses on his bedside table, fumbles in the process of getting them on his face.

“Ah. Science things. So--”

“Stay for breakfast,” Combeferre says, instead of kissing the concentrated frown off of Grantaire's face (which is what he'd actually like to be doing, inexplicably.)

Grantaire looks startled, but nods. He's the first to slide out of bed, away from Combeferre, setting his feet on the ground and standing up. When he stretches, Combeferre can't keep his eyes from the pale expanse of soft skin that's revealed beneath his t-shirt. Combeferre is familiar with bouts of desire, momentary lust, but this _longing_ is so far from that—he wants to reach up, pull Grantaire back into bed, finally get their stupid layers of clothing off and out of the way.

Instead, he sighs, follows Grantaire into the kitchen, and is careful not to touch.

Enjolras is awake already, seated amongst the leftover party mess still scattered across the kitchen. Half-empty cans of beer and the sink full of dishes from the cookies Jehan had drunkenly decided to bake for everyone. He's made a pot of coffee, sits sipping at a mug over a book. Ordinarily, Combeferre would join him. He glances up as Combeferre and Grantaire come in, raises his eyebrows. Grantaire keeps his gaze trained on the floor with only a muttered “G'morning.”

Combeferre gives Enjolras a pointed stare. _Get out, go anywhere, don't ask_. They are excellent at reading each other's expressions, after years and years of practice, and Enjolras's eyebrows rise higher, his mouth going tight. But he closes his book, and nods to the two of them.

“I'm going to the library,” he announces. A minute to grab a sweater and slip on his shoes, and Enjolras is gone—and Combeferre knows he'll have some explaining to do, later, because while the both of the make an effort to stay out of the gossip the swirls often among their group of friends, they always need to know what's going on with one another. Combeferre moves further into the kitchen, pours two cups of coffee, and takes the chair that Enjolras vacated.

Relunctantly, Grantaire sits down across from him, arms folded and eyes still lowered. He doesn't move to take the coffee that Combeferre pushes in his direction.

It feels like the worst cliché, Combeferre considers, as he wraps his hands around his own hot mug of coffee and says it: “We need to talk.”

“No shit.” 

He feels Grantaire nudge at his feet underneath the table. Unintentional, most likely, but there all the same.

“We need to figure this out.”

Grantaire shrugs, runs a hand through his hair quickly. “What's there to figure out? Blah blah you're bonded with a loser, clearly it's some sort of crazy mistake, and we can pretend it didn't happen. I won't blame you if you want to hide it.”

'Why would you think I want to hide it?” Combeferre almost has to grit his teeth to stop the words from coming out too harshly. 

“Why wouldn't you? This whole fucked up mess. Maybe it'll go away?” Grantaire sounds almost hopeful, and Combeferre's heart sinks. Nonsensical bonds with nearly-nonsensical emotions.

“It's a _soulbond_ , Grantaire,” Combeferre says, trying to logic away the typical self-deprecation. “And I know we don't know each other all that well, but--” _I'd like for you to kiss me again, fall asleep together again. Go to an art gallery together, find charcoal and graphite and paint on my bedsheets_. _Who is your favorite author? Let me show you this--_

Combeferre has a vague inclination to slap himself, for these _feelings._ But they're only natural, as his textbooks on the subject would certainly assure him. He says, “The bond won't go away just because we might want it to. There's no purpose in ignoring it.”

Grantaire shrugs again, splays his hands out on the table—a gesture of helplessness. “I'm suddenly head over heels for you even though we barely know each other after two years of so-called friendship. Right. Such a recipe for a successful bond.” He sighs, still doesn't touch his coffee. Combeferre wonders how he takes his coffee. Does he even drink coffee? Irish coffee, maybe? “This all feels like some sort of fucked-up dream.” His fingers twist against his arms, gripping himself hard. “It's all I can do to stop myself from touching you. And that's definitely fucked-up.”

“I'd like it if you did,” Combeferre hears himself say, quietly. Hands uncurl from their safe place around the coffee mug, reach across the table toward Grantaire. “We don't need to kiss again. We can start slower than that, if you'd like.” He exhales, slow and measured, and it affords him a pause in which he can think before he adds, “Since this is something that we are clearly both experiencing, whether we would've chosen it for ourselves or not, I believe it's worth exploring.”

Grantaire's eyes widen, and he stares down at Combeferre's hands. Palms up, an open invitation.

Then Grantaire laughs, low and unhappy. His chair squeals against the floor as he rises quickly to his feet. “I think you need to actually think about this before you go stumbling into something stupid and ridiculous,” he mumbles. 

And he's out the door before Combeferre has a chance to reply.


	2. Chapter 2

“You look like shit,” is the first thing Cosette says to him, but she says it so sweetly and sincerely that Grantaire can’t even pretend to be affronted. She steers him from the doorway onto the sofa—he squishes the throw pillows, and dammit, why do Cosette and Eponine have so many fucking pillows—and hands him a mug of freshly made tea.

His mouth twists into a scowl as he stares down at the cup in his hand.

“Eponine went out for coffee,” Cosette tells him, and winds their fingers together. “You can tell us all about what’s going on when she gets back. And no, no smoking inside. No matter the crisis, even if Eponine lets you when I’m not here.”

Cosette and Eponine are roommates, have shared an apartment since last year—although Cosette only lives here nominally now. Since meeting Marius she spends most nights squeezed onto Courfeyrac’s pull-out couch with him, because as much as she loves sleeping in a real bed, she knows better than to  _flaunt_  Marius in front of Eponine when she doesn’t have to. But after getting Grantaire’s text, she’d rushed back to the apartment, sent Eponine out for the coffee and doughnuts they knew Grantaire would need, and sat down to wait.

A few minutes of silence, waiting now on Eponine. And when the front door bangs open, Grantaire suddenly finds himself with two styrofoam cups of coffee pushed into his hands and a wild-eyed Eponine gasping: “You did  _not_  sleep with Combeferre.”

“Well we didn’t have sex,” Grantaire is quick to explain, although suddenly the thought of sex with Combeferre is definitely not unappealing. Which just adds to the fucked-uppery that must be going on inside Grantaire’s mind, he decides. “But. Um. This might be even worse than that.”

It takes less than two minutes before Eponine decides that it’s time to break out a new bottle of whiskey, and Cosette doesn’t even bother to protest when Grantaire fumbles in his jeans pocket for his crumpled pack of cigarettes.

At the end of his story, Eponine strokes his hair and says soothingly, “There are worse people to bond with than Combeferre, you know. Might even be good for you.”

“Too good for me, you mean,” Grantaire snorts. “We’re both probably better off just pretending that this didn’t happen, and maybe it’ll go away?”

…..

Grantaire is more than used to having to play pretend. Bringing home tall, blue-eyed blondes when he’s drunk enough that it doesn’t make much difference, or when that is inconvenient, making do with fantasies. Fantasies of blond curls wrapped around his palm, and a greedy, hot mouth pressed against his lips, his neck—and other places, too. He’s always imagined that Enjolras would be loud in bed, and as insistent and opinionated as he is real life. Bossy maybe, too.

But tonight’s different— _of course it’s different, everything is different, isn’t it?_

At the bar with Bahorel, the idea of taking some guy or girl home with him is physically repulsive. He avoids flirtatious glances, staring into his drink while Bahorel pretends to be unconcerned. The idea of a stranger’s hands on him is more than unwelcome, suddenly—it makes his skin crawl. He wonders if all that casual sex has caught up to him, made him lose his self worth (like he had any to begin with) and start to despise himself (as if he didn’t already) like all those abstinence-only pamphlets in high school threatened would happen.

He calls it an early night, heads back to his apartment far less than he would like to be, but at least he has a bottle of vodka in the kitchen, waiting for him.

Half the bottle and three hours of mindless Netflixing later, Grantaire heaves himself off of his sagging sofa and manages to crawl into bed—it feels emptier than usual, even though it’s almost always just him, so what’s the goddamn difference, anyway?

He slides a hand into the elastic waistband of his boxer shorts, curls his fingers around himself, just a little something more to take the edge off, and the dark allows himself to pretend that someone else is there.

(And for the first time in two years, he doesn’t pretend it’s Enjolras.)

He thinks of gentle hands, curious and precise in every touch, in every shift of grip and press of fingertips. Foreheads together, brown eyes, breathing in each other’s air and the slow unravel of careful control.

Phantom lips against his pulse, whispering encouragement until—

Tonight, Grantaire comes with a sigh of a new name, and realizes just how fucked he really is.

…..

He goes to the meeting this week—it’s been a fortnight since he fled Combeferre and Enjolras’s kitchen and Grantaire feels nauseous all the time and lonelier than usual and can’t complete any of his school assignments because all of his sketches turn into Combeferre after five minutes. It’s fucking ridiculous, being head over heels for someone he doesn’t  _really_  know, when he doesn’t even know what he sees in him because it smacked into him so suddenly and against his will. He doesn’t know how Marius and Cosette and Jehan and Courfeyrac were able to manage it, to function.

(But there are things he loves—could love, does love, whatever the fuck it is—about Combeferre, when he takes the time to think about it. He’s brilliant, for one thing, in his own quiet way. Kind, and never dismissive even of the most outrageous of Bahorel’s escapades. But he can gently destroy an argument in one-hundred-and-forty characters or less, and do it nicely, too.

There are certain upsides, to being bonded with Combeferre, if Grantaire would allow himself to dwell on them.)

But he’s desperate to see Combeferre again, after making excuses for skipping out on their group’s regular meetings for two weeks in a row, and this is as good a time as any.

Public, casual. He doesn’t have to speak to Combeferre if he doesn’t want to, if he changes his mind, if it’s too much, too overwhelming.

Grantaire does wonder how Combeferre is doing with all of  _this_  though. If he’s able to sleep at night, if calm Combeferre has found inside of him some anger at the world for saddling him with someone as useless as Grantaire.

He’s five minutes late, slides into a seat beside Eponine in the back. His hands are shaking, even after having finished half of his flask on the walk here. She pats his knee and gives him a sympathetic look—or at least as sympathetic a look as Eponine can manage. Because as much as Eponine loves him, she also thinks he’s being a coward, and has taken the time to tell him so several times since the bonding first happened.

Enjolras stops what he’s doing for a moment—hunched over the front table looking over pamphlets and flyers with Combeferre and Courfeyrac—to frown and glare at him. Grantaire pastes on a cheery grin and shrugs his shoulders, pointedly  _does not_  watch the movement of Combeferre’s throat as the other man swallows nervously, tries hard not to stare at Grantaire himself.

When Enjolras glances at Combeferre, his frown deepens, and he crosses his arms and opens his mouth to speak.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre says, interrupting whatever angry tirade his friend was about to embark on. “We should get back to work.”

Their gazes reluctantly sidle away from Grantaire and back to their papers, and Grantaire exhales a sigh of relief. Even if he still can’t tear his eyes away from Combeferre. His shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms and long fingers that tap edgily against the tabletop. Glasses keep slipping down his nose, as usual, and—

“Looks like Enjolras knows,” Eponine mutters. “And he isn’t happy with you about it.”

“Obviously. No one is deserving of his best friend, let alone someone like me.” Grantaire pulls his flask from his coat pocket, unscrews the cap, and takes a swig.

Eponine purses her lips. “You know, that’s probably not what it is.”

Grantaire just rolls his eyes, tries not to allow himself to feel suffused with warmth whenever Combeferre’s gaze darts back toward him, and their eyes keep meeting.

No one seems to notice, besides themselves and Enjolras and Eponine—which is good, really, great. Because the last thing Grantaire needs is for his friends to laugh at him, laugh at Combeferre for getting stuck with him. Or, even worse,  _pressuring_  them into something that clearly neither of them wanted before now, and only want now because of whatever fucked-up natural disaster just occurred in their brains.

He’s quieter than usual, when the meeting starts properly and the rally for GSM rights in three weeks continues to be discussed. Doesn’t have it in him to argue tonight—wouldn’t get anything out of it, taunting Enjolras and watching Enjolras seethe at him in their typical routine.

“I need a smoke,” Grantaire says, and slips out of the side door of the cafe before Eponine can offer to join him.

It’s dark and cold in the alleyway adjoining the Musain, and Grantaire tugs his ragged flannel jacket more tightly around him as he fumbles for his lighter and pack of cigarettes.

When he inhales, it doesn’t give him the sweet relief that he’s searching for, and when he’s finished his first cigarette, he quickly readies to light a second when the side door opens again.

“There you are,” Combeferre says, and Grantaire can tell he’s trying to keep his voice light, not too concerned, as he steps outside to join him. The door shuts behind him. “The meeting is over. I thought I would let you know.”

Grantaire nods. “Alright.” He puts the unlit cigarette away and moves his arms up further into his coat sleeves—something to do with his hands, to stop him from reaching out to Combeferre. But the other man hasn’t bothered with a jacket in the middle of October, just stepped out briefly to check on Grantaire and now he can’t make himself leave. He’s probably freezing, Grantaire thinks.

“We really should talk,” Combeferre says softly, and his sigh turns the cold air into a fast-disappearing cloud of fog. “I can’t stand not being near you, and I’d like it if we could figure this out somehow.”

They’re inching closer to one another, leaning in, without wanting or trying to.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Just shut up and come here.” Grantaire opens his arms, because _Combeferre looks cold and unhappy_ and  _oh_ , Grantaire has an overwhelming need to make those things  _stop_ , because he’s  _Combeferre_  of all people, and even if they weren’t emotionally bonded together for life, Grantaire knows that Combeferre doesn’t deserve to feel those bad things. All he wants to do is warm him up for a moment, make him smile—and then Combeferre is taking a hesitant step towards him until they’re pressed together, Grantaire’s arms coming around the other man and hands sliding up his shirt, savoring the feeling of Combeferre’s bare skin against the palms of his hands.

And judging by the way Combeferre is pushing him up against the brick wall behind them, fingers digging into Grantaire’s hipbones, there are no forthcoming objections in regards to how Grantaire’s simple plan of making Combeferre warm and happy is going horribly, horribly awry.

…..

Combeferre is taller, and even as he stoops slightly for their lips to meet, Grantaire has to tilt his head back to make up the rest of the difference. They aren’t gentle with one another, cannot even pretend to be. When Grantaire bites down on Combeferre’s lower lip, Combeferre hears himself let out a low moan, and presses Grantaire harder against the wall, grinding their hips together shamelessly.

(It’s the first time that they’re doing this—there ought to be more hesitation, more trepidation and fear, instead of this headlong rush because neither of them can help themselves.)

Grantaire pulls away, but only slightly, to move lips and tongue and teeth along Combeferre’s pulse, the column of his throat, and Combeferre knows he’ll have red marks to hide the next day. He flexes his hands in the fabric of Grantaire’s jacket, tries to maintain some semblance of control, restraint, but then Grantaire reaches up to pluck his nipple through his shirt, and Combeferre can’t help but to rut against him—Grantaire’s muttered encouragements of “Fuck. Yeah. Just, let me—” only encouraging him, and Combeferre can’t remember the last time he’s done  _anything_  like this, let alone in the Musain alleyway.

When Grantaire drops to his knees in front of him, Combeferre has to lean forward, hands bracing him against the wall, to keep himself upright. Because  _fuck_. Grantaire resting his head against his thigh, nuzzling against his crotch, really ought to be illegal.

“Can I—?” Grantaire asks, on his knees in front of Combeferre.

“I think—it’s been awhile, for me,” Combeferre says, biting back a  _fuck, yes, please._

“Doesn’t matter,” Grantaire mumbles, hands reaching for Combeferre’s belt, and then his zipper, and then he’s in a hurry to shove his trousers down around his thighs. He’s slower about this part—licking a long strip up Combeferre’s cock, and leaving Combeferre gasping, fingers clenching uselessly against brick. Combeferre can’t even look at him, the sight combined with the  _feeling_  of it is too much for him to handle, but when he hazards a glance downward, Grantaire smirks up at him, licks his lips before sliding them over him, and Combeferre wonders if his friends can hear his loud moans inside the bar.

He moves to fist one hand in Grantaire’s hair, and his dark curls aren’t soft like Combeferre imagined—they rough and thick and wiry, inclined to frizz when fussed with. He pulls at it harder, buries his fingers in it. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be, how he wants it to be. Something more romantic, or hell, even a bed would do. Candlelight not strictly necessary.

But not this, a back-alley blowjob just because neither of them can stand it anymore.

When he tugs at Grantaire’s hair again, Grantaire lets out a high-pitched whine around his cock, starts to paw at himself through his jeans. The vibrations of it—and the vocalization of Grantaire wanting him,  _needing_  him—they’re enough to make him come with an aborted thrust of his hips.

After a moment, Grantaire swallows and pulls away, gazes up at Combeferre with bleary eyes.

“Can I—should I—” Combeferre begins, while he tries to catch his breath and struggles to pull up his own pants. He motions to Grantaire. “Do you need me to—”

Grantaire stumbles to his feet, ignores Combeferre’s outstretched hand for help. “No. No, I’m good. I ought to—”

“Come home with me,” Combeferre finishes for him, and closes a hand around Grantaire’s bicep. He can feel the other man shaking, and realizes that he’s still trembling, too. “Please. And we can figure something out there. I would like to spend more time with you, if you’d like that.”

Grantaire sighs, runs a hand through his mop of hair. “Fine. But none of that mushy soulbond shit.”

“All right,” Combeferre agrees, and his grip on Grantaire’s arm slides down to take his hand. And he can’t help but manage a tentative smile when Grantaire doesn’t pull away.


End file.
